


a better place

by halesbunnyteeth (lautjuh1)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bullshitting about hockey, Coming Out, Flower Shops, Fluff and Angst, Hockey, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Moving On, Pre-Slash, Self-Acceptance, Stanley Cup Playoffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7123063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lautjuh1/pseuds/halesbunnyteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way to happiness is laced with setbacks, heartfelt conversations with your ex and, above all, a thousand flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a better place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chartreuser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/gifts).



> This was written for chartreuser at the Fourth of July Birthday Bash, who requested Kent going from sad to being happy and working some things out with Jack. This got...a lot longer than I'd envisaged. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Sidenote: I know literally nothing about hockey, so please forgive me for any and all bullshitting going on in here.

**One: October 2016**

The bar is loud and full, a fact that is not in the least aided by the dozen or so large hockey players currently taking up the better part of three booths, laughing and talking loudly. A couple of them are over to the side, playing darts; a few are obviously and obnoxiously flirting with the couple of female fans that unfailingly find them when they are out.

Kent is propped up between Warder and Persy, cradling the same beer that’s been in front of him for the last hour or so. They are mostly talking to each other; Warder’s arms flailing in that way they always do when he gets excited about something. Kent has had to duck away to avoid being hit in the face many times in the last 10 minutes. He sporadically offers a contribution to their conversation, but is mostly happy to just observe his team.

“No, but the point of the _entire movie_ is that Bucky is not a bad guy,” Persy says resolutely. “That is Cap’s motivation. To save his best friend.”

“I get that,” Warder responds vehemently. “But Tony has some good points about the registration, and Steve is willing to endanger all that because of _one guy_.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s not because-”

As they continue arguing, Kent blocks out their voices, studying his other players instead, one by one, to make sure they’re all doing okay. Most of them are mid-conversation, either with each other or with a fan, looking loose and happy after winning their home opener. They have earned this free time and are enjoying it, as they should. Most of his players, as Kent has discovered over the last couple of years, aren’t complicated people. They love what they do, feel happy when they win and down when they lose, and have moved on by the time they are on the ice again the next day.

It seems very peaceful-- must be nice.

Finally, his gaze focuses on a figure sitting at the bar by himself, tracing the rim of his glass with his fingers and looking down at the counter. _Huh_. Kent excuses himself and extracts himself from the booth, shuffling past Warder, who pushes softly against his shoulder.

“What you doin’, Cap?”

“I’ll be right back, guys. Maybe you’ll be finished with your nerd conversation by then, you dorks.”

“Hey!” Warder protests with another push against Kent’s shoulder.

Kent grins, and gives a friendly shove back. “I’ll get you guys another beer.”

He walks up to the bar, but shakes his head when the bartender comes up to him. Instead, he positions himself on the chair next to Caleb.

Caleb is one of the newer guys on the team, a recent draft from the NCAA where he played at Boston University. The rookie is a good player, a bit on the shy side. That is about the extent of Kent’s knowledge about the guy. Although he tries to be the kind of captain that knows everything he needs to know about everyone- the reality is that he doesn’t have the time to do so, and not every player comes to him of their own volition.

Still, it is clear to him that something is up with Caleb.

“Hey man, you okay?” he asks.

Caleb visibly startles, looks up at Kent with big eyes.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Of course. Thanks, Captain.” He smiles; it’s a little too wide - the sort of smile Kent is all too familiar with. “I was just about to head back actually,” he says and makes an attempt to slide off the stool.

Kent stops him with a hand to the shoulder.

“Caleb,” he says, trying to find a balance between stern and concerned. “I just need you to know that I’m always here to talk if you need anyone to listen. No judgment. Even if it’s just because you’re having a shitty day or if you feel like there’s too much pressure on you. Anything, kid.”

“I don’t-” Caleb doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

“I’m just saying,” Kent says, “We’re all only human. We can’t keep everything bottled up inside.”

“We’re on!” Persy shouts from his place in the booth as the Aces-Coyotes highlight reel comes on. The guys cheer and all turn to the TV. Kent smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

“You wanna watch?” Caleb nods, so Kent gives his shoulder a final squeeze and they both spin to face the screen.

“Great shot, yes?” Dantzy calls out when his goal is shown and they all cheer again.

The rest of the segment dissolves into one big shouting match. Kent doesn’t even try to understand any of what they’re saying, but he’s glad to see them all so happy.

They all cheer when the winning goal is shown; after, Kent shifts back to face Caleb and repeats, “I’m always here if you need to talk, okay? And so are the coaches. You know that, right?”

Caleb nods shyly, and looks up to him. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Cap.”

“Anytime,” Kent replies.

He turns again, ready to slide off the chair and order those promised beers, when his eyes fall on the screen. Right there, in full glory, looking tired but satisfied, with droopy eyes and a content smile, is Jack Zimmermann, giving an interview. Something drops in Kent’s stomach, like it always does when he sees Jack, hears about him, _thinks_ about him.

He freezes in place, still staring at the screen. The sound isn’t on, so he can’t hear what Jack is saying, but he radiates the happy glow that he always does when a game went well. Kent kind of hates that none of that has changed after all this time.

Jack seems... relaxed. It’s a good look on him. Kent hasn’t seen him like that for a long time, wonders when he got that back. _He didn’t need me to be happy again_ , he thinks, and immediately feels selfish for the thought.

A firm hand lands on his shoulder.

“Cap?” Caleb asks. Kent forces himself to shift away from the screen. When he looks at Caleb, the guy is looking back at him with apprehensive but sincere concern. “Are _you_ okay?”

Kent smiles, a move he’s practiced in front of his mirror a thousand times.

“Yeah, Caleb. I always am.”

***

The thing about Kent is: he isn’t in love with Jack Zimmermann.

If anything, he hates Jack. There is so much history between them, so much things that have been fucked up and many of it is Kent’s fault, but so many is also Jack’s.

There used to be a time when Kent- back when he was still _Kenny_ \- thought that Jack was perfect. It was the illusion of a seventeen-year-old who thought his romance was the greatest love story ever written, who couldn’t imagine anything ever going wrong in it. It was the childish naiveté of a teenager who thought he and his boyfriend would both be drafted to the same team (what was he even thinking) and grow up happy together. It was all the daydreaming of a kid who forgot that real life would get in the way.

The thing about Kent is: he has always been blind when it comes to Jack Zimmermann.

They – _Zimms_ and _Kenny_ \- had spent so much time together, shared basically their entire lives, and Kent still hadn’t realized the extent of Jack’s problems. He remembers calling Jack, the night before the draft, right before the overdose, and saying, “We’re gonna be stars, Zimms” and Jack had said, “Yeah” in a quiet voice, but Kent can’t for the life of him remember if he had realized, at that moment, that Jack was high out of his mind. Maybe he had, but he never realized how bad it would get and how that could influence Jack’s career.

He had definitely not realized how unhappy Jack was.

Maybe it was because he, himself, was _so_ happy. He had no reason not to be. The world was at his feet; he had the kind of confidence that came with youth that made him _sure_ that he would be drafted; he was with this beautiful boy who he loved and who loved him back. In hindsight, his happiness made him not only made him blind, but selfish as well.

It had crushed him, when Jack OD’d. He’d spent weeks feeling like he was to blame, for not realizing; hadn’t visited Jack until months later. And yeah, maybe, in retrospect, his guilt made him entirely selfish, too.

He is glad Jack got better, he really is. He had seen it before, when he went to visit Samwell; Jack had been standing against the wall, as he used to do at parties, but he was relaxed and smiling and taking a selfie and he- looked happy. It’s a good look on him. Kent’s heart had leaped in his chest over seeing Jack like that.

The thing about Kent is: he is probably still in love with Jack Zimmermann.

***

When Kent switches on the lights in his living room, later that night, Kit throws herself against his leg from where she was lying on the couch. He bends down to pick her up and presses a kiss against her soft fur. She lets him stroke her for a couple of moments, then wriggles in an effort to be released, so he lets her back down on the floor. She spends a few seconds licking her fur back into place, then haughtily makes her way back to her favorite spot.

He sighs, making his way over to the couch to slump down next to her. His hand comes to rest in her fur, but she meows and moves away from him with a huff. Apparently she’s in one of her moods.

“Fine,” he tells her. “Be like that.”

She meows again, head held high, and then goes back to grooming herself.

He turns on the TV and slides down his couch a little bit more, until he’s lying comfortably with his head on the elbow rest. In a fit of martyrdom, he switches channels until he finds a channel that is broadcasting hockey games. It’s showing a highlight reel of the Sharks-Kings game, which he already knows the final results of, so he doesn’t pay full attention, eyes slowly fluttering shut. He should probably go to bed, instead of falling asleep on the couch; tomorrow is an early day and he doesn’t want to be sore during practice tomorrow.

Instead, he keeps shifting between dozing off and keeping half an eye on the screen.

The TV shows a number of games, including another replay of the highlights from the Aces’ game that night. He watches as his own shot misses by not even two inches, and he feels annoyed with himself again. Finally, the Falconers’ game against the Bruins gets featured.

Kent snaps to attention and turns the sound up.

There's a couple of shots of various saves and almost-goals and then- the TV switches to a close-up of Jack, right before taking his shot. Kent watches as Jack draws back and sends the puck forward in a seemingly effortless movement. The puck flies into the net in slow motion, the goalie’s glove just barely grazing it, but not enough to change its direction. It’s the GWG.

Kent uses his remote to rewind a little bit - small mercies for digital television - and pauses on Jack's face, right before his shot. He looks intense. Focused. More so than he did when playing for Samwell, Kent thinks. He looks like a man on a mission.

Kent stares at the screen for another minute, then berates himself for being creepy, turning the TV off.

On a whim, he gets out his phone, right before he falls asleep, and he texts: _Good game tonight, Zimms._ He watches as one check mark appears next to the message – sent. He stares at the screen for a minute, but no second mark appears. He figures Zimms is asleep. Of course he is – it’s well past midnight in Vegas, so it’s really fucking late at the east coast.

He still stares at the phone for another two minutes before he turns it off to plug it in at the other side of his room. The red light that tells him it’s charging keeps him awake all night.

***

When he checks his phone the next morning at a way too fucking early hour, there is a response. _Thanks, Parse,_ it says _._

It makes him way happier than something so simple should.

 

* * *

 

 

**Two: May 2017**

The play-offs have, so far, been brutal. The first round was hard fought, but ultimately won after 6 games in a play in which Kent managed to score twice, himself. In the second round, the Aces manage to finally bag the Blackhawks in their 7th game, a meager 2 – 1 victory that cost them every last ounce of energy – almost screwed up in the last minute due to one of the defenseman’s almost rookie mistake, only to be thankfully salvaged by a brilliant save by their goalie. They should really be better than this by now, Kent thinks – they won a fucking Stanley cup last year, damn it.

He doesn’t say any of this to the team when he rounds them up after practice later that week – not in those exact words, anyway.

Instead he says, “I’m proud of you, guys. I know that win wasn’t easy, but we did it anyway and I can truly say that was a team effort.”

The guys cheer loudly. He shakes his head, smiling, and shushes them.

“Yeah, yeah. Well done, guys, you all get to pet yourselves on the back _after_ I am done speaking, okay? Okay! As I was saying, I am proud of you. But...” He holds up a finger in an effort to look stern. “We’re not there yet, and we need to hold onto this momentum. Over the next couple practices, I need you guys to be focused. I need you guys to give it all you’ve got. And I need you guys to work on the weaknesses we showed against the Hawks. You think you can do that?”

The guys cheer again.

“Good. Now get your asses out of here and rest - we have some butts to kick!”

The guys all clear out after that, off to lunch or home or whatever it is that they do when they have free time. Kent stays behind, like he usually does, until all the others have left. It’s something _his_ captain used to do, make sure he was there in case anyone needed to talk to him, and Kent continued the tradition when he was elected. Most days, it’s unnecessary and he will walk out with whoever took longest to clean up their mess.

Today, though, somebody lingers. Caleb’s clearly trying to not be obvious about it, just calmly putting away his stuff, putting on a clean shirt, but Kent is paying enough attention to know when somebody is hesitant about starting a conversation.

He patiently waits while the other players leave until it’s just the two of them in the room. For a couple moments, it’s quiet. He considers asking what’s the matter, but worries that pressuring Caleb into talking to him will just cause him to snap shut.

Eventually, Caleb turns around.

“Cap, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, always,” Kent replies. Caleb nods, tongue nervously darting along his lower lip.

“Do you think-” he starts, finally, “I’ve just been thinking, recently. If you live your life without being true to yourself for a long time… Do you think that is a situation that can keep?”

Kent doesn’t know. He’s been wondering about that for years, himself. He doesn’t really want to say that, though, because Caleb _came to him_ , like Kent had told him he could, and it feels like betraying his trust.

“Not on the long term, I don’t think,” he says.

“So what do you do if you can’t really show the world who you are?” Caleb asks. Kent looks at him, thinking. He wonders what it is the rookie is hiding, but he doesn’t think that it’s his place to ask. Still, he feels a surge of sudden kinship; two souls trying to be something they’re not.

“I think,” he says, eventually, “that having someone that you can show the real you to helps a lot.”

Caleb nods, looking down to the ground with furrowed brows, then back up to face Kent. “Thanks, Cap. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Kent replies.

***

On ice, the Las Vegas Aces skate harder than ever before. When they’re not on the ice, they’re analysing videos of both their own games and that of the Blues, trying to determine their weaknesses. It seems that his speech made some impact, at least.

By the time they play their first game, on their own turf, Kent is completely certain of his team’s abilities again. Still, there is a reason the Blues have made it so far, so he can’t risk his men getting overconfident. So he tells them they’re doing great - but also that they need to work for it. They practice again. And again.

The first game goes off without a hitch. Maybe it’s because they’re playing at home, or maybe it’s the strict training regime - maybe it’s something entirely different - but when they step out on the ice, everything just -- clicks.

They absolutely wipe the floor with the St. Louis Blues. It’s beautiful.

That night, he tells the team it’s exactly what he wants to see. He feels like he can fly. The Stanley Cup is so close he can almost smell it - and it smells sweet.

***

They get eliminated in the sixth game of the Conference finals, at the away game in St. Louis. They fight hard, but come out bruised and scratched. Warder gets slammed into the boards so hard he breaks his wrist, and is - despite multiple claims that he is ‘still okay to play, coach!’ - out for the entire last period. He gets replaced by a second liner who is good, obviously, but who just doesn’t have the same kind of on-ice chemistry with Dantzy, and they play at maybe 99% where it should have been a hundred. It's just- not enough.

The mood on the plane back home is severely subdued. Kent sits in a seat near the front, staring out of the window. They're flying high above the clouds. He wonders what it would feel like, flying through them outside the metal confines on the aircraft. Wonders if that would be what freedom feels like.

Somebody sits down next to him. Kent doesn’t turn around, instead stubbornly peering outside.

“Hey, Cap,” Caleb says in a soft voice. “Are you okay?”

Kent sucks in a breath, and turns around anyway. Caleb is looking at him with that sincere look of his, brown eyes wide and soft and attentive. It’s striking, how much he has grown into himself over the last couple months- from the shy man -well, boy, really- he was, straight out of college and unsure how to behave in the real world, to this strong, caring guy. Kent feels a surge of affection and smiles, involuntarily.

“Yeah, Caleb. I’m just - sorry I failed you.”

Caleb shakes his head vehemently. “You didn’t fail us, Cap. You’ve been great. You pushed us to be so much better than we were before.”

“Thanks Caleb. But - well, I guess it just wasn’t enough. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t fail us,” Caleb repeats. “We should be the ones saying sorry - this is on all of us. You shouldn’t take the whole blame.”

“When did you become so perceptive, huh?” Kent asks, smiling softly. “Thanks, really. But the end responsibility is on me, anyway. I should have made different choices.”

“That’s bullshit.” Caleb says it with a fierceness that surprises Kent - he is normally so soft-spoken.

“Maybe it is,” Kent admits. _Doesn’t mean I’ll stop blaming myself_ , he thinks, but Caleb looks so earnest that he can’t bring himself to say that, so instead he goes, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Caleb replies.

***

When they land, half the team goes home to rest. The other half decides that they need to the end the season on a slightly happier note - ‘happier’ mostly meaning ‘drunker’.

“You wanna come with, Cap?” one of the younger players asks. “Maybe scoring a puck bunny will get that frown off your face, huh?”

It’s a lame chirp, and nothing he hasn’t heard before, but the thought churns something inside him in a decidedly unpleasant manner.

“Not tonight, guys,” he manages. “Have fun, though. Drink one for me, yeah?”

They leave, after that, grumbling good-naturedly about him being a spoilsport. He can’t particularly contradict them.

When he gets home that night, he knows should go right to bed. It's been a long day, and flying always tires him no matter how often he does it. Instead, he walks straight to his kitchen and pours himself a good three fingers of whiskey. Throws it back in one large shot. Pours another one.

The alcohol burns in his throat. It's a feeling he hates, normally, but he finds that he likes it this time - the sensation challenging some of the numbness that had settled in his mind. He walks to his living room, scoops Kit up from her place on the couch. As if sensing his mood, she graciously allows him to cuddle her for a good two minutes before pawing at his arm to let her down again.

He sighs and walks over to the window, looking out over the lights of the Las Vegas skyline.

“You know what the problem is, right, princess?” he asks her. “The problem is that I should be great, you know? Youngest player to be elected as Captain in the Aces’ history. First to go in the draft. _Wunderkind_.” He snorts. “I was the best, Kitty, the best.”

She meows.

“I _know_ ,” he says. “But what if I’m just not good enough? A better Captain would’ve made it to the finals, Kit, I’m sure of it.”

Understandably, she doesn’t respond to that, instead rolling onto her side on the carpet. Kent sighs.

“Yeah, you think I’m crazy too, huh?”

He takes the final sip from his glass. He’s on his way back to the kitchen to pour a third when he hears his mom’s voice resounding in his head, warning him about the dangers of drinking by yourself. _You don’t want to end up like your Uncle Jerry, do you, Kenny?_

He thinks of how Uncle’s Jerry’s nose is always slightly red, how his eyes are always a little unfocused, and how there’s always an underlying sense of loneliness in his haunted looks.

Kent changes direction and heads to the bathroom, deciding that he probably needs that sleep, after all.

***

When he wakes up the next morning, still slightly hazy from the alcohol, there’s a message in the group. It’s a couple of the boys, holding up their drinks.

 _Had that drink for you, Cap_ , Caleb has written below it.

Despite the overflowing emotions of disappointment and the light hangover, Kent smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

**Three: June 2016**

The fucking Falconers win the Stanley cup.

Kent had promised himself not to watch the game, not to beat himself up like that, but the time comes and he’s feeling restless and he can’t not turn on the TV. The game itself isn’t even really a nail biter, because the Falconers are already two games in the lead at this point, and they score twice in the first period. Still, Kent is on edge for the entire hour and a half.

Jack, of course, makes a third goal for the Falcs, his second of the night, in the last period - the nail in the coffin for the Blues. It’s a beautiful shot, right into the corner of the net, goalie completely surprised by it. Jack’s face lights up, and he looks straight at the public, smiling broadly, before his team jumps on him in a celebratory celly. The camera cuts at the stretch of arena he directed his gaze at; there’s a loud couple of guys sitting there, holding up a sign saying _Yo, marry me, Jack Zimmermann_. Kent recognizes them as Jack’s old college team. They’re screaming and jumping and hugging each other.

The slow-motion repeat of the goal is as beautiful as the first time he saw it. Not for the first time during the game, Kent marvels over Jack’s impeccable technique, at the way he has only seemed to improve his game in recent years. The camera zooms in on Jack’s face after the goal, right as he turns to grin at the Samwell team. His gaze is intense, as it always is - and always was - when playing, but there’s a fondness in his eyes that is new.

It makes Kent wonder who there has earned that look, and if - maybe… if things had gone differently, he would have been on the receiving end of it, himself.

***

Jack’s appointment as Captain for the next year is announced in the press conference after the game. He is glowing. God, he seems so happy. It’s a good look on him.

Kent wants to resent him, but honestly - he can’t. If anybody deserves this, it’s Jack. He’s come back from so much, and he’s _earned_ this. He should have been there years ago, like Kent himself was.

“I think my time at Samwell University has been an invaluable part of my life,” Jack is saying to an asshole reporter who asks a too-often demanded question about damaging his career by going off to university. “Not just because I have valued my education there, but because the Samwell team has provided me with incomparable lessons on friendship and leadership. I don’t think I would have been ready to be Captain without them. They made me a better person.”

 _What about me?_ Parse thinks. _Didn’t I make you a better person?_

But deep down, he knows what the answer to that is - and it’s not one he wants to hear.

***

Two weeks later, as Parse is lying in the sun on the balcony of his hotel in Honolulu, trying to enjoy his free time, he gets a text from Warder.

 _You should turn on your TV_.

It’s all he sends, and for a moment Kent debates whether this cryptic message is worth getting up for, but curiosity ultimately wins out, so he gets up and walks back into his room. He needs to switch channels a couple times, trying to figure out what he’s looking for - but quickly figures it out as soon as he hits a sport’s channel.

Jack Zimmermann is giving a press conference. Sitting next to him, looking way more comfortable than Zimms despite not being famous, is Eric Bittle. There’s a small nameplate in front of him identifying him as such, but Kent doesn’t need it to recognize him - he remembers the guy with great clarity from that time he drove up to Samwell.

God, that night. What a mess.

“... personal to me,” Jack is saying, “...and this decision has taken a while to come to. However, I think it is important to both me personally and a lot of other people that I make this announcement.” His gaze shifts to Bittle for a while, who gives an almost imperceptible nod. Huh.

Jack breathes in deeply. His physique appears calm, but Kent knows better. Jack is nervous, steeling himself up for something big. It makes Kent nervous as well, anticipation for what’s about to happen rising like a sudden flood.

Finally, after what seems like eternity - but in reality is probably two seconds - Jack looks straight at the camera and says, “I’m bisexual and in a relationship with the man sitting next to me.”

The journalists present all begin talking at once, an incomprehensible noise coming from the TV’s speakers, but Kent is not even trying to understand anything they’re asking. He’s frozen in front of the screen, staring as Jack starts answering questions. Did he just really-

Fuck.

There’s a thousand thoughts running through Kent at the same time, and not all of them make sense, but finally his mind settle on the first big realization.

Jack Zimmermann just became the first out player in the NHL.

His second realization is that _Jack Zimmermann_ just became the first out player in the NHL. Fuck. It’s... unexpected, to say the least. When they were together- Well. When they had their thing, whatever it was- Jack was always very vocal about not wanting that. He would claim that it would just be extra pressure, pressure that would affect their playing. _There’s a reason nobody does it, Kenny_ , he used to say.

 _Isn’t that taking the easy way out_? Kent would reply.

 _I don’t think there’s an easy way out_ , Jack would say, _But out of all options, isn’t having that privacy the best_?

He was clearly over that now, hand coming up to cover Bittle’s.

That brings Kent to his third realization: Jack Zimmermann is in a _relationship with Eric Bittle_. It’s, well, not surprising, maybe, now that Kent thinks about it. He doesn’t like to think back to that night at the frat house party, but if he forces himself to, he thinks that maybe it was right there in the way Jack was talking to Bittle, a relaxed stance against the wall, a genuine smile on his face and making the offer to take a fucking selfie.

He wonders if they were together, even then. Then he thinks that, no, Jack would’ve pushed him back right away, had that been the case. He’s always been the better person out of the two of them.

Still, it fucking hurts. Jack looks- uncertain, right now, scared, but at the same time really happy, gaze flickering over to catch Bittle’s eyes every once in a while, and it’s just so _fond_. The way he used to look at Kent. Probably even a lot more loving.

All of the sudden, it’s enough - he has to turn off the TV. He can’t watch this anymore.

Instead, he walks straight to the minibar and grabs a small bottle of whiskey.

 

* * *

 

 

**Four: July 2017**

The problem with summer, Kent muses from the comfort of his shower - besides the fact that the Nevada sun is too fucking hot - is that it seems endless. Without games to prepare for and look forward to, he has way more free time on his hands than he is used too. It’s disconcerting. It gives him way too much time to think about shit that he doesn’t want to think about.

Like Jack Zimmermann and his stupid droopy eyes and that fucking _stupid_ fond look in his eyes directed at that _stupid_ blonde replacement of Kent. And okay, Kent actually remembers Bittle; he recalls talking to him - nice, a little too southern for Kent’s taste, but charming in his own way. God, Kent hates him.

He turns off the shower, wraps a towel around himself and walks into the air-conditioned dryness of his bedroom. He looks down at his shorts - literally the shortest fucking pair he could get his hands on (God, he hates Las Vegas summers) and makes a decision.

***

Jack actually picks up the phone, which is surprising and actually a little annoying, as Kent had planned on leaving a voicemail. He hears stumbling around for two seconds and then Jack’s deep voice saying, “This is Jack” in an absent way that suggests he hasn’t looked at the caller ID.

Kent takes a deep breath and says, “Hi. It’s uh- It’s Parse.”

“Oh.” Jack sounds immediately more attentive. Kent can picture him on the other end, straightening up in that way he does when he’s uncomfortable. He kind of hates that he does that to Jack. “Uhm. Hello.”

“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Kent asks, immediately regretting every choice he made that led him to this moment.

“No it’s…” Jack trails off. “What do you want, Kenny?”

“Uhm, to talk?” He’s not completely sure why he phrases it as a question, but well - there you have it.

“So talk.”

“Oh. Uhm. I meant in person.”

Jack falls silent for a moment. Then he says, “You know I live 2000 miles away, right?”

“Obviously,” Kent throws back. “I really need to escape Nevada for a couple of days.”

“So you decide to visit me?” Jack asks, sounding a little dubious about it.

Kent snorts. “Yeah. Well. I do really want to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know any else who will understand, Zimms. Please.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, but sighs eventually. “I’m free this weekend.”

“Thank you,” Kent says heartfelt. “Really, Zimms. Thanks.”

***

Providence is not as hot as Las Vegas, but the humidity is about twice as high, and so after landing, Kent finds himself sweaty and gross within five minutes of landing, anyway. So much for escaping the heat.

Oh, well. It’s not the main reason he came here, anyway.

He has booked a hotel downtown, and he can easily get a cab there, but Jack insisted on picking him up, anyway - Canadians and their bloody politeness. Kent spots him right away, despite his pathetic attempt at a disguise (hoodie and cap, Jack, really? How cliché can one guy get?); there’s still a familiarity in the lines of his body, even if his shoulders have grown a little but broader and his stance is a little more straight, like he’s more sure of himself.

(He probably is, Kent thinks: age and development and success will do that with you)

“Hi, Zimms,” he says, sliding up to him from behind. “Didja miss me?”

Jack turns around, shaking his head, but more relaxed than Kent had feared.

“Like a fungus,” he says, but he's smiling softly when he says it. “How was your flight?”

“Long, tedious, you know how it is. It's good to see you, Zimms.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, then gestures his head. “My car’s that way, come on.”

They walk in silence. There’s a number of things that Kent wants to say, but not in public, and he’s not sure what else to talk about.

“So how’s life as a Stanley cup winner?” he asks, eventually.

“Even more press than before,” Jack says. “How about you?”

“Oh. Yeah, same.” Kent shrugs. “I’m kind of surprised they didn’t follow you here. I was a little bit afraid of an ambush, to be honest.”

“Yeah, that’s why I wear these,” Jack says, gesturing to his outfit.

“... You’re wearing a hoodie and cap in the middle of the summer, Zimms, this is not inconspicuous, oh my God.”

“It works though.”

“Oh. My. _God._ ”

***

They stop by Jack’s apartment, first. It smells like apples and cinnamon.

“Oh, yeah, Bits is baking, probably,” Jack says, smiling.

“Oh, right. The baker,” Kent says. “Think I’ll get any of that famous pie?”

“If you behave.”

“Excuse you, I would _never_ deny a guest pie. My mama and moomaw learned me _some_ manners at least.” Eric comes walking out of the kitchen, wiping his hands dry on a towel. He has good hands, Kent notices; strong. Now that he sees him in person, again, he realizes that the guy’s not as tiny as he looks on TV - muscular legs come out from beneath shorts that are even shorter than the ones Kent owns- and that’s saying something. He’s actually kind of cute.

Kent hates everything.

Because he, too, was raised with manners, he shrugs it off and holds out his hand for Bitty to shake.

“Eric, good to see you again,” he says.

“You too,” is the reply. The hand grip is tight- it feels like a competition, and Kent’s not sure who’s winning, but he’s guessing it’s not him. Eventually, they let go of each other, looking at each other in a sort of challenge.

“Y’all go sit in the living room, I’ll bring coffee and pie when it’s done,” Eric says. It’s very polite- and it sounds weirdly threatening.

“He seems nice,” Kent says when they settle down on the couch. The apartment is weirdly… dressed up - pillows draped on the chairs, candles on the coffee table. It’s very tasteful. Not Zimms’ doing, Kent imagines, thinking back to staring at empty walls from beneath simple black sheets, _back when_.

Then he suddenly has a flash of _that was eight years ago_ , and thinks _do I even know this version of Jack_?

But Jack is sitting there, completely upright, hands curled together in not-quite fists, and Kent thinks _oh, he’s nervous_ , and that is still completely the same.

It’s honestly very disconcerting.

“He is,” Jack says.

“He living here?”

“He just moved in here, about a month ago. He, uh, graduated, so he’s trying to figure out his future.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. What does he… wanna do?”

“He’ll probably open-” Jack trails off, huffing out a breath. “Kenny, I don't mean to be rude, but- why are you here?”

And yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?

“... I missed you?”

“Kenny…”

“No- I know. I wasn’t going to-” He bites down on his tongue to stop words that he doesn’t want to say from spilling out. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”

“No,” Jack says roughly. “It’s not. I can’t do this anymore, Kent, I- I’m in a good place. And I don't want to screw that up.”

“No, I know. I don’t want to-”

“Because if I do, I just-”

“I won’t screw it up for you, Zimms. Please. I just need to talk.”

“So talk.”

Kent takes a nervous look in the direction of the kitchen. No, okay, he can do this, even if Eric is in there- it’s fine. He’ll be fine.

“How did you… decide to come out?”

“Oh - I just… didn’t want to live with that extra pressure on me, anymore.” Jack glances at the kitchen, too.

“Because of Eric?” Kent guesses.

“That, too. He wasn’t- I mean, He would have kept going like we did, if I asked him to. But I didn’t want him to have to anymore. And _I_ didn’t want to anymore, either. I was in a really good place and I figured- if not now, then when?”

“And how did your teammates react?”

“No, they - they already knew,” Jack says, and when Kent lets out a soft _“oh”_ , his eyebrows shoot up and he asks, “Kenny, have you not told anyone in your team?”

Kent bites down on his lower lip, shakes his head.

Jack frowns. “So, who knows?”

“Uh. My mom?”

“Is there nobody in Las Vegas who-”

“No. Well. My cat.” 

Jack makes an aborted motion, like maybe he wanted to reach out to Kent but then decided against it.

“Oh, Kent, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no. It’s fine. Really.”

“You think maybe you want to...” Jack trails off with a shrug. Kent frowns.

“Want to what?”

“Nothing, I just-” he pauses, again, and Kent is just about to respond, annoyance building, when Jack takes a deep breath and says, “Do you want to come out?”

“No, that's not- I don’t think so. It’s only more hassle, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Jack concedes. “But I’ve felt- a lot better since I did. So. Maybe, if you’re considering it- Do you think you’ll feel better too?”

“No, I- feel fine, anyway. Really.”

“Really? Is that why you’re here?”

“Damn it. When did you get all wise and insightful?”

Jack laughs, eyes crinkling. “Don’t know. Bitty helped a lot. We talked about it for so long before I actually made that decision. It kind of- made things a lot more clear.”

Kent doesn’t have anything to say to that, mostly because he’s coming to a lot of realizations at once, the main one being _I don’t have anyone to talk to like that_ and _Damn, this Jack is so much more mature than the one I left behind eight years ago_. It kind of stings, realizing that Jack is a completely different person than he knew, even if he seems so similar.

“So what _do_ you want?” Jack asks, when the pause in their conversation is reaching an uncomfortable length.

Kent startles at the question. “Oh. Uh. To play hockey?”

Jack hums, crooks his head to the side and asks, “Is it really?”

Kent looks at him, completely incredulous. “Of course. Hockey is all I've ever wanted.”

“I know, Kenny, believe me. But you know that-” He shrugs. “Maybe it’s not my place, but you don’t seem really… happy, Kent. Are you?”

He crumbles.

“I don’t think that I am, Zimms.”

“Oh, Kent, I’m sorry,” Jack says, and shifts forward to wrap an arm around Kent’s shoulder. Kent slumps, resting his head against Jack’s upper arm.

“I have apple- Oh, my Lord, I’m sorry, are you okay?” Eric asks.

Jack looks up, and Kent can just _tell_ they’re having a silent conversation over his head, probably one that entails Jack going ‘ _you should go_ ’, because Zimms is anything if not a martyr, so he saves them the trouble and says, “No, actually. You can stay, if you want, or leave, whatever.”

“Okay,” Eric says, and sits down. “Here, have some pie. One of the best medicines against sadness, I swear. Little secret from the South.”

He highly doubts it, but he grabs the plate that’s been placed in front of him anyway.

“You wanna talk about it?” Eric asks. He’s perched down on the chair across the coffee table.

“I don’t really know what to talk about,” he says and it’s… a lot more honest than he’d figured he’d ever be in front of Eric, but there’s something about the guy that kind of just invites something. “I just don’t know who I want to be, right now. Or need to be, maybe.”

“So maybe you just need some time to figure it out?” Eric asks. “Isn’t that also why you’re here?”

Kent nods.

“Yeah. I just. Don't even know where to start.”

Bitty nods, but doesn't say anything otherwise, looking at Kent with this considering expression that seems like he's looking right through him.

“I don't know what makes me happy, anymore,” Kent finally says.

“So what _used_ to make you happy?” Bitty asks. Kent thinks about that, for a second.

“Hockey. And I always thought-” He glances to the side, feeling exposed and awkward. “I always thought Jack, but maybe I was just fooling myself with that.”

“And hockey?”

“I don’t know. I like playing, of course. It’s just...a lot of pressure now. And anyway, I can’t just stop, you know?”

“Why not?

“Well it's-” He frowns. “It's what I do, isn't it? I don't know if I'm anything without it. And, anyway, my contract's been renewed for the year.”

“So maybe take the next year to figure out what you want?” Eric suggests. “And uh- if you ever need to talk, we’ll still be here.”

“Thank you, Eric,” Kent says- and he finds that he means it.

***

“We could never work anymore, could we?” he asks Jack when he’s dropped off at the hotel that night. “Like, even if you weren’t so in love with your amazing boyfriend?”

Jack shrugs.

“I think if we’d try, we’d just be trying to hold onto some sort of nostalgia- something that isn’t there anymore,” he says. “I’m not the same person anymore, Kenny. And neither are you.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Kent shuffles back and forth on his feet, looking up at Jack.

“Thank you, for today, Zimms,” he says eventually. “I’ll think about things, now, I think. So. I’m grateful. For Eric, too.”

Jack nods.

“He likes to be called Bitty, you know,” he says.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kent laughs.

“You’re flying tomorrow afternoon?” Jack checks. Kent nods. “Okay, want to come over for breakfast, then? Bits’ pancakes are kind of amazing.”

Kent looks up at him surprised, and nods again. “Okay, I’m going to hug you now,” he says.

He does, and Jack lets him, and it kind of feels like it used to - but also not, and he’s grateful for that.

***

Breakfast the next day is, indeed, amazing.

“He’s kind of wonderful,” Jack had told him about Eric - Bitty - and yeah, Kent is kind of starting to get that.

 

* * *

 

**Five: October 2019**

“Hiya, boss man,” Violet says, coming in through the back door, a large box pushed up under her arms. “Where do you want this?”

“What is it?” he asks from behind the counter, where he is carefully laying out a piece for the Simons-Darcy wedding.

“Just some random stuff that you ordered, I think.” She takes a peak inside. “Some new scissors, rope… Let me see, what’s this-- Wait, did you buy new gift cards again?” She eyes the space next to register, where a cluttered pile of tags and cards is spread out, critically.

“These are _hockey themed_ , Vi,” he tells her. “I couldn’t _not_ get them.”

“Oh my God.  You have no sense of how to run a business,” she tells him - not for the first time.

“I happen to be rich as fuck and also your boss, so be nice,” he says primly.

She shakes her head, despairingly, and says, “You, Kent Veronica Parson, are a wise man and a good leader.”

He laughs.

“Good guess. Not even close, though.”

“ _Damn it_. Just tell me your damn middle name, already.”

“Nope!”

The bell at the front chimes in a warning that somebody has entered the store. They both turn to face the door, customer-friendly smiles ready.

“Welcome to Cutting Edge Flowers,” Violet says warmly. “How can I help you?”

A flustered-looking boy - maybe 20 years old - comes in, looking extremely uncomfortable. He pulls up his shoulders in a sort-of half shrug, hands firmly planted inside the pockets of his jeans.

“Uh, I’m looking for, uh, like, flowers?” he says.

Kent and Violet share an amused look.

“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place, hon!” Violet ushers him towards the display of pre-made bouquets, firing a number of questions to the boy that make him flush (“who are they for?” (This girl I’m taking out for our third date), “Ooh, okay, so you’re trying to say something with these, huh? (I guess…), “Come on, third date, we all know what that means” (Uhm…)).

Kent listens, amused, while his hands almost automatically continue with the task of mixing white roses and white astilbe flowers in an intricate pattern. He’s only been doing this work for a couple of months, but there’s already comfort to be found in the now familiar movements - cutting off the stem, carving away the excess leaves, mixing it in with the rest of the flowers; rinse, lather, repeat - like he used to find in the displacement of ice under his skates, the familiar sound of the pucks clacking against the stick.

Violet finishes up with the boy, still chattering away as her experienced hands wrap plastic around the bouquet, binding the whole thing together with an elastic band. The boy is still blushing, but looks somewhat more comfortable, now that he’s found something he thinks the girl will like.

She rings up the total; he pays and turns to leave, then halts halfway through the motion to look straight at Kent.

“Do I like, know you from somewhere?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” Kent says, smiling pleasantly. The boy’s brows furrow for a moment. Then his face brightens and he shrugs.

“Must be confusing you with somebody else. Thanks for your help!” he says, and leaves the store.

Violet laughs. The sound is rich and warm. He’s only known the girl since late July, but her laugh is a sound he’s learned to love quickly.

“ _I don’t think so_ ,” she mimics, badly drawing out his NY accent, the _th_ almost coming out a _t._ “You big faker, oh my God.”

He shrugs.

“What was I gonna tell him, Vi? Oh, yeah, you probably know me as the washed up ex-Captain of a team in city that’s way too hot to justify having a hockey club.”

She swats her arm at him.

“You’re not washed up.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he throws back.

He doesn’t actually believe it. The choice to retire from the Aces was a conscious one - it wasn’t like he was forced out by management. Not after leading them to the 2018 Stanley Cup finals- not just as Captain, but as top scorer - losing only in overtime in the seventh game from the Sharks playing at top strength. He could have gone on for another year, maybe more; not as Captain, perhaps, but definitely as player - he wasn’t that old, yet.

Still, the thought of having to go through all of that _again_ \- it was a lot. The choice hadn’t been particularly difficult. Despite a beautiful win, hockey didn’t bring him the satisfaction anymore than it once had - back in the time when he thought the sport was all he needed.

Living here, though, it helps. He thinks a lot, about all kinds of things. About how he misses hockey, but wouldn’t go back to it for all the money in the world. There’s- too much pressure, there. Still, he misses the contact with his teammates, misses the adrenaline that came with stepping onto the ice, with facing your opponent and having only one thing on your mind for the next hour and a half: winning.

On the other hand, it’s kind of nice- not being recognized all the time. Sometimes, fans come into the shop, asking for autographs, and for the first couple of weeks (months? He can’t recall) journalists would try and come in, making pictures from him working, but the novelty of it wore off pretty quickly. Of course, it helps that he never really did anything really interesting, so the headlines got boring pretty quickly.

“You, Kenny P, are a paragon of youth and vivacity,” Violet says.

“Aw, thanks Vi, that’s just what I needed to hear today.”

She blows him a kiss.

He finishes up the the piece - it’s large and intricate, and - if he may so himself - wedding worthy. He looks at it with satisfaction, then carefully moves it to the pallet in which it will be transported to the church.

“Alright. You can man the fort for a while, okay? I’m going out for a walk,” he says, eventually. Violet salutes him on the way out. He closes the door behind him, takes a deep breath and takes a detour past the ice-cream parlor to his favourite antique shop. Vi will most likely berate him for this, but he is absolutely sure that the store needs a decorative update.

***

Kent has, over the course of his life and his hockey career, visited a lot of places, but not a lot of them can compare to the way Carmel felt to him the first time he arrived. There is something about the friendly feel of the cottages, the seaside wind blowing in your face and the abundance of _green_ that gave him a sort of feeling of “Oh. This is it” when he first drove through here.

It had been right after losing the Stanley Cup finals. He needed to get out of Vegas for a while, not to do the whole _fancy-hotel-in-Hawaii_ thing, but a break from- everything. He had thrown some clothes into his suitcase, gotten in his car and started driving. He had driven through Death Valley, up to Yosemite, staying in roadside motels and taking in the wideness of the nature, feeling like -for the first time in years- he could breathe. He bought a new pair of boots and, leaving at sunset, hiked up to the Half Dome, feet blistered and muscles aching from being used differently from normally by the time he made up to the cables. The view when he finally made it up there made every second of pain worth it. Later, he took a detour down to Los Angeles, but the sounds and smells of the busy city had weighed down on him, so it had taken him less than half a day to leave again. Route 1 brought him up to the North. He spent a day wandering along the Big Sur, breathing in the salty smell of the sea, watching Sea Lions napping on the rocky beaches, took a hike up to a dried out waterfall, lamenting over the California dryness.

Eventually, he drove up in the direction of Monterey, leaving the highway where it departed from the sea to take a detour along the beach, and wound up in Carmel.

Kent can count on one hand the amount of times in his life where it felt like all pieces falling into place.

The first was when he met Jack - still Jack Zimmermann, then, Bad Bon’s son, a boy who looked like he carried the world and who was whispered to be the next big thing; not Zimms, who looked at Kent with droopy eyes from below rumpled sheets and called him Kenny - and Kent had locked eyes with him and thought, _We’re going to be great together_.

The second was at the Draft, when he met with the Aces’ Captain who told him that the Aces could be his home, if he wanted them to.

The third was right then as he parked his car alongside Scenic Road in Carmel-by-the-Sea and stepped out onto the sand. It was late afternoon, approaching dinner time, and the sun was still shining pleasantly. The beach was quiet for the time of the season; very few tourists, a number of families lounging on picnic blankets or throwing a beach ball around. A couple to the right of him was sharing a bottle of wine, exchanging loving looks.

None of it was exactly groundbreaking, but something settled inside Kent. Later that afternoon, when he wandered into town looking for a place to eat, he had walked past the flower shop. _For sell_ , a large red sign on the window said. The paint was peeling off the windows slightly, and the door was slightly crooked, but the small cottage was about the cutest thing Kent had ever seen. He walked in, talked to the owner - a woman well in her sixties, looking for retirement and the chance to move down to San Diego to live near her daughter who had just had a baby - and walked out having come to a flash of insight.

The next week, he sat down with management and told them of his decision to retire.

***

Kent is just about to close up, about a week later, when the bell chimes. He looks up, feeling just a bit annoyed that somebody would come in this late when he had planned a wonderful relaxing evening of take-out and Netflix and debating whether he can call Violet to come to the front to deal with them, when he stops in his tracks.

“Hi Captain!” Dantzy says loudly. “Shop is beautiful. You are flower lady now, huh?”

Behind him, Warder is looking around the store with naked curiosity, and Caleb is still loitering in the door opening. Something of- affection, surprise, a giddy sort of happiness rises up in his Kent’s chest and he can’t help it - he starts laughing.

“Yeah, Dantz,” he says eventually. “I’m a flower lady now.”

He moves around the counter to greet them. Warder throws his large arms around him in an all-encompassing bear hug. Dantzy throws himself on top of the both of them, laughing.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” he asks, face smashed against Warder’s shoulders. The guys let him go, grinning.

“Why, visiting your ugly ass, of course.” Warder shakes his head. “I see your absence from the sport hasn’t done anything to improve that brain of yours.”

Kent doesn’t dignify that with a response. He comes up to Caleb, who is leaning against the door frame, looking amused at the scene in front of him. Kent opens his arms to pull him into a hug; despite Caleb being half a foot taller, he lets himself be enveloped by Kent, his own arms settling around Kent’s waist for a moment before they both pull back.

“No practice this weekend, huh?” Kent asks.

Caleb shrugs. “Nothing we couldn’t skip to visit our favourite ex-Captain.”

“I’m your only ex-Captain.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not saying a lot,” Caleb smirks.

“Oh, fuck off, Cal,” he says, punching his ex-teammate’s arm. Caleb’s eyes crinkle a little bit. There’s a relaxedness about him that wasn’t there before, a sort of confidence, like he grew into himself even more if that was possible. It’s a good look on him.

“You need he- Oh, hello!” Violet comes in through the door that leads to the office. Dantzy turns to her, large smile on his face.

“Oh, this your girl, Parse? Is beautiful!”

Violet snorts and blushes at the same time.

“He wishes,” she says brightly. “Who are your friends, Kenny P?”

“ _Kenny P?_ ” Caleb mouths, eyebrows raised. Kent smacks his arm again.

“Violet, these are my ex-teammates. Warder-”

“Call me Johnny,” Warder interrupts, stretching out his arm to shake her hand.

“- Dantzy, and Caleb. Losers, this is Violet.”

Caleb, too, shakes Violet’s hand, but Dantzy sweeps her up in a hug, proclaiming, “any friend of Parse is friend of mine!” She looks a little flustered - though amused - when he puts her back down.

“Don’t harass my employee, please, Dantz,” Kent says. “I would hate to have to hire someone else because my idiot teammate scared her off.”

“Please,” Violet exclaims. “As if I’d be scared off that easily. Who here was the wuss that called _me_ to remove the spider, huh?”

Kent scowls, but Dantzy lights up like a Christmas tree.

“I like her!” he proclaims loudly. Violet looks back at him, coyly, giving him an obvious once-over. _Oh God_ \- Kent knows exactly where this is going. Ugh.

He looks back at Caleb, who moved back to his spot against the doorpost, looking mostly very entertained. Their eyes meet for a moment and Caleb raises his eyebrows slightly, gesturing his head towards Dantzy as if trying to say, _Can you believe this guy?_ The corner of Kent’s mouth twists up.

Next to him, Violet and Dantzy are engaged in some sort of flirty stare-off and he just- doesn’t need this right now.

“ _Okay_!” he says. “Did you guys have dinner yet? I’m starving.”

“Oh, I saw a Thai place on the way over,” Warder says. “Is it any good?”

“I’ll give them a call when we’re home,” Kent says.

“You join us?” Dantzy asks Violet. She cocks her head.

“Nope, sorry, plans. Are you guys planning on staying this weekend?”

“Yeah, we didn’t come all the way out here for just the evening,” Warder replies. “We were kind of hoping we could crash with you, Parse.”

“Unbe- _freaking_ -lievable,” he says.

“Ah, Cap, you know you want us there,” Caleb says, eyes wide and innocent. Damn it, he’s totally being played here, but he can’t say _no_ against that puppy look.

“ _Fine_.”

Violet smirks. “Then I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it,” Dantzy replies, and her smirks widens.

The guys leave the shop with a lot of noise. He looks at them go, shaking his head. Violet sidles up next to him, elbowing him softly in the side.

“You’re friends are kind of cool.”

He chuckles. “You sound surprised.”

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond, letting him draw his own conclusions like she usually does - and turns her eyes back to where he is looking, through the glass of the front door to where his teammates are talking and laughing.

“He’s cute,” she says, gesturing with her head.

“Dantzy?” he asks, unsurprised.

She laughs. “No. Well, yes, him too. Obviously. I meant the other one, though, with the nice eyes.”

“Oh. Uh. Caleb.”

“Yeah,” she says. She looks back at him, mischievous grin appearing on her face. “You should tap that.”

“I- what- I mean- How did-” he stammers.

“Puh-lease,” she says. “In all the time I’ve known you, you never checked me out once, not even when it was 90 degrees out and I was basically walking around in not much more than underwear, and he’s here for two minutes and you go all gooey-eyed. I’ve got your number, Parson.”

“Gooey-eyed, really?”

“Gooey-eyed, really,” she confirms.

He shakes his head. “Well. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Doesn’t it?” She throws an arm around his shoulder.

“Nah. I don’t think he-” he trails off, unsure.

She smiles, tightens her grip a little before letting go. “I think he does. Now go, hang out with them, I’ll close up.”

He presses a kiss to her temple.

“Thanks, Vi. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“If you wanna repay me,” she says. “You could get me your Russian friend’s number.”

“I thought you were seeing that girl from the coffee shop in Monterey,” he says.

She grins. “I’m sure she’d be open to it.”

“Ugh. I do _not_ want to know.”

***

After dinner, the guys lie down on the couch, complaining about full bellies (“At least it’s a cheat day, Cap, or our dietitian would be very disappointed with you” - “This was _your own choice_ , Warder”). Kent leaves them be with a head shake, but a smile.

“I’m going out to get dessert, try not to destroy my house,” he warns them, remembering Warder’s talent of entering a house and destroying at least one vase, plate or - on one memorous (or perhaps more accurately: infamous) occasion - an eight feet high stainless steel fridge within an hour of arriving. Warder mumbles something that sounds rude, but is otherwise too much in a food coma for react strongly.

“I’ll go with you,” Caleb says.

They walk mostly in silence for the first part; every now and then Kent points out something in the environment, or tells a piece of gossip about the person whose house they walk past, but for the most part, Caleb’s looking around of appreciation of Carmel’s beauty and Kent is looking at Caleb in appreciation of him _being here_.

Eventually, right before they get to the supermarket, Caleb looks at Kent and says, “Actually, Cap, now that I’m here… I kind of wanted to talk to you.”

Kent looks at him, considering, and nods. He sits down on a roadside bench, gesturing for Caleb to settle down beside him. Caleb makes a nervous movement, but does, perched uncomfortably at the edge.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks.

“I just-” Caleb says. “I think I’m… Never mind, I shouldn’t bother you with this.”

He moves to get up again, but Kent stops him with a hand to the wrist.

“I told you once that you can always talk to me, Cal. That didn’t change just because I stopped being your Captain.”

Caleb frowns, but sits back down again, face turned to the ground.

“You’re right. It’s just- hard to talk about.”

“Many important things are.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Caleb takes a deep breath and then finally angles his face to look Kent straight in the eye. “You know Jack Zimmermann, right?”

It takes a lot not to start laughing at that- Kent can’t hide a soft, amused smile.

“Yeah, Caleb. I know Jack.”

“Right. Yes. Of course you do.” Caleb grins self-consciously, rubbing a hand over the backside of his neck. “I was just- How did you feel when he came out?”

Maybe that should have taken Kent by surprise, but it really doesn’t. He smiles again, tightens his hand around Caleb’s wrist just a little before letting do.

“Jealous,” he admits.

That does seem to surprise Caleb, whose eyes widen slightly.

“Oh. So you’re-”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Caleb repeats. “Me too.”

Kent nods. “I figured.”

Caleb’s eyes widen even more, at that. “Was it- obvious?” He sounds a little bit alarmed by the possibility.

“Oh, God, no. I meant... Just now.”

Caleb lets out a sigh. “Good. I mean-” He shakes his head, looking slightly panicked. “Obviously I- I mean. I am okay with it, I think. Being gay. Just. You know… Not people- knowing. Necessarily.”

“Caleb,” Kent says, to stop him from rambling. “You’re okay.”

Caleb takes a deep breath.

“Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, Cap.”

“Not your Captain anymore,” Kent says. Caleb huffs out a small chuckle. They sit next to each other in silence for a couple of minutes. Eventually, Kent says, “So do you want to live without people knowing this about you?”

“Do you?” Caleb asks and that’s- fair.

“I asked first,” Kent says, childishly.

Caleb laughs again. “Yeah, I’m not- ready for the world to know, I think.”

“People took Jack’s statement pretty well.”

“Yeah, but he’s- different, you know? He’s _Jack Zimmermann_. Plus the whole world is in love with his boyfriend, I think that helps.”

Kent snorts. Yeah, he can see how having Eric Bittle by your side would soften the blow somewhat.

Caleb shrugs. “I don’t know. I just- don’t have any of that. People would just look at me and think - oh, that, you know... faggot - and I’m afraid they’ll just assume I am this huge slut or whatever people think of when they stereotype single gay guys.”

“You don’t know that,” Kent protests weakly.

“Yet you haven’t come out, either,” Caleb points out, knocking his elbow against Kent’s.

“Yeah…” Kent bites down in his lower lip, trying to think of the right words. “I think- There was so much pressure on me for such a long time. I’ve only just started to figure out what I need to be happy. I never even considered coming out back when I was playing.”

“So what do you need to be happy?” Caleb asks, looking at Kent intently.

Kent shrugs, gestures around.

“I don’t know. Living here, doing this job- It helps. I think I’m getting there.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“Yeah. And you? What do you need?”

“I don’t know yet,” Caleb says. “I don’t know what I want to do. I just... needed to tell someone. So. Thank you for listening.”

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” Kent replies.

They sit next to each other on the bench, stupidly smiling at each other, for a couple minutes, until one of Kent’s regular customers walks past and greets him, and the moment is broken.

“Come on,” Kent says, nudging their shoulders together before standing up. “Let’s get your loser teammates something sweet and bad for them on their cheat day.”

***

When they get back with to the house, the other guys have found their way to Kent’s barely used Xbox and have started a new game of Call of Duty, perched down on his couch and eyes intently on the screen. He places the sugary donuts next to them on the coffee table and says, “Don’t tell your dietitian.”

“She’ll hate you,” Warder says without looking up.

“She always did,” Kent says loftily.

***

The rest of the weekend goes by in a pleasant haze. He usually has the shop open on Saturdays, but _fuck it_ , he owns it, so he can close it once, if he wants to. They spend the morning lazing around in his apartment, trading out stories from _back when_ , and then drive out to Monterey, where he takes them to all the touristy hotspots, gaining attention from tourists and locals alike - how could they not, those three large, loud hockey players (and Kent).

At the end of the afternoon, after they moved into a pub to sit out a rain shower, Dantzy says goodbye to them to meet up with Violet.

“Don’t wait up,” he says cheekily, and they all shake their heads as they watch him leave.

“Who would’ve thought,” Warder says. “What a lucky man.”

“I do _not_ want to know,” Kent says again, emphatically.

“Aw, jealous?” Warder coos. “He’s only been here for a day, and he’s already stolen away your girl.”

Caleb and Kent’s eyes meet in solidarity.

“Oh, not jealous,” Kent says. “ _Heartbroken_.”

Warder thumps him in the shoulder. “Sorry, man. What about we go out tonight, find you a rebound?”

Kent snorts. “That’s okay, Ward, thanks.”

“I can’t believe you moved away and became even _less_ fun. Although I should have guessed with this fucking Gilmore Girls town. Caleb, how about you? Let me be your wingman, dude.”

“I’m cool, man, thanks. How about we’ll be _your_ wingman tonight?”

“Well, if you guys insist…”

***

Turns out, when they go into the bar, Caleb doesn’t need any help. Like during the day - and even without Dantzy there - their presence in the club immediately draws attention. Huh, now Kent remembers what it was like to go out with these guys.

They order their first beer and sit down at a booth to the side, and for a couple of moments it’s just the three of them talking, but soon the first batch of giggling girls come up to talk to them. Warder responds to them enthusiastically, eventually standing up to go dance with one of them, and the remaining girls spend some more effort trying to get Kent and Caleb up and dancing as well, but they soon realize their efforts are wasted and make their goodbyes, already searching the place for more willing participants.

Caleb goes and orders a second drink, and they sit together in the booth and talk in low voices and watch, amused, as Warder draws the girl closer to him in an awkward move.

“He is just _so white_ ,” Caleb complains.

Kent laughs. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I’m like, the whitest guy you could possibly meet.”

“Okay, true. But I’ve seen you dance, and you don’t look like that.”

“Yeah? What do I look like, then?” Kent asks.

Cal’s eyes flicker back and forth from where Warder is dancing to where Kent is sitting.

“I don’t know. Smoother than that. You’re not a bad dancer...” He looks at Kent, eyes considering, and then concludes with a smirk, “For a white guy.”

Kent laughs.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. This white guy is getting you another drink. You want one?”

“Get me a shot,” Caleb says, eyes glowing.

Kent comes back with two pints and two shots of tequila. They sit next to each other, lick a stripe salt from their hands, throw back the shots, cringe at the sourness of the lemon. Then they sit back in the booth, continuing an earlier conversation about one of the newer team members. After a couple of minutes, Caleb looks back to where Warder is visible in the dancing crowd and groans.

“I am honestly just embarrassed for him, now.”

“It seems to work for her,” Kent points out.

“But at what _cost_ , Kent? God, at _what cost_?” Caleb complains.

Kent smirks. “You wanna show me how it’s done then, huh?” Maybe it’s the alcohol making him pleasantly hazy, or maybe he’s hearing Vi’s voice in his head saying _you should tap that_ and maybe, just maybe, he’s finally allowing himself something that’s wanted in a while, but it feels like he’s heading into flirting terrain and he doesn’t immediately want to back out.

Caleb turns his head and leans in, lips almost brushing Kent’s ear as he speaks. “Only if you join me.”

Kent _does not_ scramble out of the booth as fast as he can, but it’s a close thing, and they make their way into the busy crowd. The music is louder, out here, and the bass is an easy rhythm. He turns around to face Caleb, moving his hips to the beat. Caleb follows, lower lip sucked in between his teeth. He _is_ a lot smoother than Warder (or Kent, for that matter), damn it, hips swaying easily, maintaining steady eye contact.

Kent lets himself be drawn in closer by that stare, until they’re close enough that their chests almost touch, but despite the pleasant buzz in his head and the question in Caleb’s eyes, he’s afraid to reach out and take what he wants. Their conversation from the night before, Cal’s _I’m not ready for the world to know_ , is resonating in his head and he doesn’t want to be the one to… Risk that, out him, whatever.

It’s all the more surprising when Caleb huffs out an annoyed breath and snakes his arm around Kent’s waist, allowing their bodies to line up against the melody of the music in the background. Kent responds immediately, wraps an arm around the back of Caleb’s neck. It’s a little awkward, at first, but then they find their rhythm, hips pressed together, moving in sync.

Caleb’s breath his hot against the side of Kent’s head, lips brushing against his temples every now and then. His arm slides down from Kent’s waist until his hand is resting on his lower back, just shy of his butt. Kent curls a hand into Cal’s shirt and turns his head upwards --

\-- A girl drunkenly bumps into them, interrupting the moment, and Kent is suddenly very aware that - despite the relative anonymity of the dance floor - they are still very much in public. He pulls back. Caleb blinks, glances around with a dazed expression on his face that looks like he’s suddenly had the same exact realization.

“I need to, uh- bathroom,” he says, pulling away completely and making his way through the crowd, away from where they were dancing. Kent watches him go, hand still curled up into a fist, and sighs. _It’s for the best_ , he thinks. He can’t imagine what would’ve happened if somebody had spotted them out there and took a photo.

He still really wants to know what would’ve happened if that girl hadn’t interfered.

He makes his way back to the booth, to find Warder back in his place, firmly alone.

“What happened, dude?” Kent asks, sliding in next to him as casually as he knows how to.

Warder looks at him with big eyes and says, “I don’t want to talk about it. Chicks in this town are crazy, Kent. _Crazy_.”

Kent laughs harder than he has all weekend, probably in months.

***

He drops them off at the airport, the next day, after Dantzy comes back grinning and slightly hungover (“I still do _not_ want to know”) and hugs all three of them. If he lingers a little when Caleb wraps his arms around him, well, who’s to say? The other guys are not ones to notice, anyway. They walk away to get to boarding in time, and, well, it seems like that’s it. Just a drunk not-quite encounter between two former teammates.

Yet Kent can’t shake the feeling that something irrevocably shifted between him and Caleb, last night, and he feels a little giddy on his way back home.

 

* * *

 

 

**Six: November 2019**

When Kent Parson comes out to the world, it isn’t meticulously planned. He hasn’t even corresponded about him with any PR manager, any communications specialist. He isn’t in any NHL team anymore, and so he thinks ‘fuck it’ and just goes with it.

So the next time some journalists contacts him for a post-Aces ‘where is he now’ type of interview, he accepts after shortly researching the woman’s press history and checking that she isn’t a massive homophobic asshole, or anything. She doesn’t seem to be, so he calls her back and says “sure, I’ll do an interview with you”.

They meet in a bar near Cannery Row, overlooking the bay and the tourists swarming about. Anne is a tall woman, fiery red hair messily pulled into a bun in her neck and a look about her that suggests she really could kill a man with her six inch heels. She is, however, surprisingly soft-spoken when she starts the interview. He tells her why he ended up in the Monterey Peninsula. She asks him why he bought, out of all possible venues, a flower shop; he laughs and gives her a sappy line about fate.

“In reality, though,” he tells her, “I think I was just looking for a change. I’ve loved playing hockey, obviously, and I can’t imagine a life without it. But it was all I knew for such a large part of my life, and I needed to figure out the person who I was _after_ hockey. This shop just came along at the right time in my life and I am so grateful it did.”

She hums, pen rapidly flying over her notepad.

“So,” she asks. “Is this what you want to be doing for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t know,” he responds. “I’m still only 29, there’s so much time for me to discover new sides to myself. Maybe one day I’ll go back to hockey, start coaching a new time, who knows. For now though, I think I’ll stick around for a while. I quite like it.”

“Does that mean you’ll be settling down here?” she asks, looking up at him with sharp eyes. “You know, wife, kids, the whole nine yards? We have reports that you’re shacked up with a cute brunette.”

He laughs.

“Oh, no, Violet is a dear friend, but that’s all we’ll ever be to each other. With somebody else? Eventually, perhaps. I haven’t met the right guy yet.”

***

The interview gets published two days later, which is sooner than originally planned, but not unexpected to Kent - it does have a different headline than Anne had originally planned, after all.

Actually, it’s not even in the headline, just the tag below it- and it’s surprisingly low key. He hadn’t expected her to make a big, splashy story about it - at least her other pieces didn’t suggest that she would - but it’s still pleasant.

 ** _Kent Parson talks about life after hockey_** **,** the headline reads. Below that, the subheading states simply **_Former Aces Captain divulges about missing his old team members, making changes and closet life in the NHL_**. The article itself is- nice, mostly.

 _Parson is very introspective, I was surprised to learn. His answers seem well thought-out and, while admitting to sometimes missing the thrill of the sport, it doesn’t seem like his decision to retire was rash or that he regrets it_ , she writes at the beginning. A couple paragraphs later, she adds: _When asked about the flower shops, he laughs and quotes John Lennon, who - he tells me - is his mom’s favourite singer: “There's nowhere you can be, that isn't where you're meant to be”_

The part that made him nervous is written down somewhere halfway through.

_Parson has quite the reputation as being a bit of a bad boy. Fans and non-fans alike will have seen many a speculation about his dating life, and he’s been rumored to have dated a number of different models, singers and actresses, as well as the odd waitress. His move to the Monterey Bay Area therefore came as a surprise to many; it doesn’t seem consistent with what we know about him._

_When I ask him if he’s planning to settle down in the area, he states - and I quote: “I haven’t met the right guy yet”._

_That’s right, ladies, I’m sorry to disappoint you - but all those rumors? They’re completely false. Kent Parson is completely Gay with a capital G. All those Google searches for “Kent Parson girlfriend” have been a completely waste of time._

It’s not- bad, but still, he anxiously waits for the phone to start ringing from the moment he gets her message that the piece has been published. There’s _no_ way he won’t get _at least_ a reprimand from the Aces management, despite not playing for them anymore. He expects the call to happen within maybe a minute, so he sits by the counter, suddenly feeling more nervous than he has in years, staring at the phone.

“You’re planning on doing anything today, boss?” Violet asks him around 11 AM after he directs yet another customer to her.

“Not really, no,” he says. “You got it under control, right?”

“You’re the worst boss I’ve ever had,” she says, but she’s not frowning as she does, so he figures they’re okay.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises.

“I want a raise,” she challenges.

He grins. “I’ll think about it.”

She walks away looking satisfied.

The waiting time is- long. It would’ve felt long no matter how much time passed, probably, but after an hour and a half he is so anxious he can’t sit still anymore, but he also doesn’t want to miss any phone call, so he shifts back and forth on his chair.

Finally, 1 hour and 49 mine Anne’s message (but, really, who’s counting?), his mobile rings. _Anton_ , the caller ID flashes - the Aces’ PR manager.

“Hiya, Anton,” he says, picking up right after the first ring, “Didja miss me?”

“I cannot believe you,” Anton says.

“Morning to you too,” Kent replies cheerfully. “How bad is it?”

“How bad- Kent, you cannot just drop a bomb like that.”

“Pretty sure I just did,” he says. Violet, who came running over as soon as she heard his phone, too, not even pretending not to eardrop, snorts.

“Parson,” Anton says. “Did you not consider the possible repercussions of an action like this for your old club?”

“I considered the possible repercussions on my own life,” Kent says. “And decided I didn’t want to live with this secret anymore.”

Anton sighs. “Well. Okay. I wish you would have consulted with us, first. We could have done this formally.”

“I didn’t want to do it formally,” Kent says. “I just wanted people to know. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is, though.”

“I’m hardly the first-”

“No, you’re not, but you don’t have the same support system that Jack Zimmermann does,” Anton says fiercely. “Kent, this would also have been to protect your well-being.”

“My well-being is fine.”

Another sigh at the other end of the line. “We have organized a press conference, Kent.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands. It’s gonna happen whether or not you’re there. Management’s call.”

“Damn it.”

“I’m sorry,” Anton repeats. “You don’t have to be there, if you don’t want. I know I can’t force you to come, and I don’t want to do that, either. But Kent- I think it’ll all be much easier for you if you’re there to answer questions.”

Kent curses. His grip on the phone gets so tight he’s afraid he’s gonna break it. Anton patiently waits for this reply.

“Fine,” Kent says, eventually.

“Get your suitcase ready,” Anton says. “This’ll all be over soon.”

***

They fly him into Las Vegas within the day; he’s picked up by a driver at the airport like they don’t trust him to get to the rink on his own and after another stern talking to by Anton, he is ushered into the dressing room to get dressed and lightly make-uped for the conference.

There’s a lot more journalists than he'd imagined. Maybe that was naive, but he was the second to come out so he'd hoped there wasn't as much attention for him.

(Still, he was only the second to come out, so it only figures there would be as much attention for him).

He sits down, reads out the short statement that was prepared for him. Yes, he can corroborate that the claims made about his sexuality are, in fact, correct. An obligatory but necessary paragraph about the hope that his privacy would be respected- not that it would be, in his experience. The mention of his hope that his coming out would support others struggling with similar situations.

The questions that are asked afterwards aren’t too bad. Partly, they’re the same as Zimms got, a year and a half ago. He figures the PR team made a pre-selection on which journalists were invited- hell, they probably had a list ready in advance, to be prepared for this exact situation.

“Why is it, in your opinion, that you're the first to come out since Jack Zimmermann made hockey history, a year and half ago? I remember there were really high hopes back then that other athletes would follow his example. Any insight as to why that didn’t happen?”

“I don't think I can speak for everyone out there,” he says. “I don't believe it is because there are no other gay or bisexual athletes out there, as some journalists have argued. I don't know their reasons for not coming out. I can tell you mine, though.”

In the corners of his eyes, he can see Anton frown, praying that Kent won’t say anything _too_ bad. Well- he’s the one that invited Kent here, so he can deal with it.

“There’s a lot of pressures on athletes from all different sides,” he says. “Obviously their number one concern will always be performing well on the ice, field, wherever. For me, personally, everything else was just… distraction. I know for me, personally, it’s- not that I believed management wouldn’t support me if I came out to them. But I also wasn’t sure that they would. I didn’t want them to think that I had issues that could compromise my emotional stability, because emotional stability could affect your play- and I didn’t want them to think that it would. So I just didn’t tell them.”

The journalist raises her hand again, but he shakes his head and continues. He’s here now- he has to say it.

“And that’s just the pressure from management. There’s also fans to worry about, because we don’t get a lot of privacy as it is, let alone if they find out something like that. And there’s always homophobia within your team and opponents to worry about.”

“You think your team wouldn’t support you?” she asks.

“No, personally, I had - have - a great team behind me and I’m sure they’d support me all the way, but- I can’t say the same for all teams, and violence on and off the ice is a big deal.”

“Mr. Parson,” another journalist asks. “If coming out is such a big deal, why do it now?”

“Because it’s not a big deal for me, anymore.” He can feel some resentment for being here bubbling up again, so he pauses, takes a deep breath. “Coming out when you’re still playing is a big deal, because you’ll always be worried it’ll affect your play. So yeah, coming out, having this conversation, when you’re in a team, that’s a big deal. But I’m not anymore, I’m in a good place in my life. And being gay? I’ve accepted my sexuality when I was seventeen. Being gay is, in itself, not a big deal to me.”

“So why come out at all?”

“Because it’s a big deal to the world,” he bites out.

He hates these questions. He should not have come. He should have- Still, the next journalist is talking, so he should answer. Or maybe he should just walk away? No, that’d be rude. His mom raised him better than that. Damn it.

“You’ve been vocal about being aware of Jack’s sexuality in the past,” the guy asks. “I think the public is dying to know - has there ever been anything there?”

Damn it. _Damn it_.

“Uh-”

“And that’s all we have time for today, folks!” Anton chimes in, cheerfully. “Thank you for your presence, everybody. I hope you’re…” He goes through his customary post-conference rundown, and all journalists slowly get up, putting away their stuff. The guy asking him about Zimms is still sitting there, looking at Kent with a considering expression, and then purposefully writes something down in his notebook.

 _Great. Wonderful_. _Fan-fucking-tastic,_ Kent sneers in his mind. _Will we ever get rid about gossip about the two of us_?

***

“Congratulations,” Jack says as soon as Kent picks up the phone. He’s still at the rink, has just finished his run-down with the Aces’ management team and Anton.

“Oh-” Kent says, still feeling slightly queasy in his stomach. “Zimms, I am sorry. I should have called you; I should’ve known they would ask questions about you and-”

“It’s okay,” Jack says.

“No, but- They said that I- and you know that’s not true, anymore, right? I don’t want you - or Eric to think that-”

“Kent,” Jack interrupts, “it’s alright. Really. We get it. I’m not mad at you, I promise. I can deal with journalists thinking we hooked up in the past.”

“No, but-”

“Kent,” Jack repeats, sounding amused. “We _did_ hook up in the past. Why should we have to lie about that?”

Huh. He hadn’t considered that yet.

“Well, if you put it like… Wait, did Eric tell you to say that?”

Jack laughs.

“We’re both really happy for you.”

Kent lets out a breathy sigh.

“Thanks, Zimms.”

***

The next to call are Warder and Dantzy, together on a Skype call. Kent has just arrived at the overly luxurious hotel they booked him for the night when the call comes in.

“Parse, you sly bastard,” Warder says.

“Why you no tell us?” Dantzy says. “We been look for girlfriend for you, should have been boyfriend!”

Kent laughs. Of course that’s what he would get out of this.

“That's okay, Dantz,” he says. “I'm not really looking for a boyfriend anyway.”

“Oooh you already got a boy?”

“Ha. No.”

“Then you come out with us tonight?”

He does. It's a great night, but he doesn't hook up with any of the guys his friends point out to him.

 _*_ **

Caleb doesn’t call until Kent’s back in Carmel, but when he does, he sounds the most emotional of anyone Kent has spoken to, so far.

“You...” he says, voice vibrating slightly. “You came out. On national television.”

Kent smiles.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Kent shrugs, then remembers Cal can't actually see him and says, "Dunno. It just felt like it was time."

Caleb doesn't say anything to that. There's a small huff of breath on his side of the phone, like maybe he's laughing a little bit, although Kent isn't sure what about.

"And do you- regret it?" he asks, eventually.

Kent does laugh at that, because that's very easy.

"No. Not for a second."

"Oh. That's... Good."

"Yeah. It is."

There's another deep breath at Caleb's side of the line. Kent waits patiently for him to say whatever it is that he clearly needs to say.

“Interesting timing, though,” Caleb says.

“How’s that?” Kent asks, even though he knows exactly what he means.

“Don’t be an asshole. You know why.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I just-” He lets out a sigh, and opts for honesty. “You’re not alone in this, Cal.”

“Kent-” Cal says, and it’s all he says, but there’s so much laid down in that one words, in _just_ his name that Kent suddenly has to bite back on a wave of emotions of his own.

“No, nope, we’re not doing this over the phone,” he says, instead. “Ask me something else.”

“If you insist,” Caleb asks. “Did you really hook up with Jack Zimmermann?”

“Shut up.”

“No _, you_ told me to ask another question. Ah man, you totally did, didn’t you? I _knew_ it. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, right?”

“I’ve also been rumored to date Taylor Swift,” Kent protests. “There’s no fire there! There’s never been any fire there!”

“Yeah, but it’s you and _Jack Zimmermann_. It’s different, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” he says, burying his face into his hands.

“Was he any good? I bet he was great. I mean, have you _seen_ that ass? Oh wait, of course you have, because you guys _totally hooked up_.”

“Cal!”

"Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. Sorry. Last question… How did people in Carmel take it?" Caleb asks.

"Oh - pretty good, actually," Kent answers. "One of my regulars told me she knew all along. 'No straight guy has this much eye for interior design', she told me."

"That's stereotyping," Cal says. Kent lets out a surprised laugh.

"Well. She wasn't wrong."

“I guess not. Sounds nice, though.”

“It’s a great place to live,” Kent says.

“Yeah, I get that. Maybe I should come visit, again.”

“Maybe you should,” Kent says, heart lighter than he ever remembers it before.

 

* * *

 

 

**Seven: June 2020**

The final game for the Stanley cup finals is in the Aces home arena and Kent is marvelling, for the bazillionth time since he retired, about how different is to be there when you’re not actually playing. Sure, as ex-player you may not have the same experience as the fans, who are queuing for twenty minutes just to get their nachos, but it’s still... just. Different.

“In a bad way?” Eric Bittle asks.

“Oh. No. I guess not.”

They are both on their way to their seats, conveniently placed close together. Bitty is visibly nervous, understandably so. His boyfriend is about to play his first Stanley Cup final as Captain of the team- it's a big deal.

“How’s Zimms feeling?” he asks.

Bitty narrows his eyes.

“I don’t know if you’re chirping me right now.”

Kent laughs. “I’m not. Promise. Just want to know if he’s okay.”

“Oh.” Bitty softens. “He is. Nervous, obviously, but okay otherwise.”

Kent bites down on his lower lip.

“He’s not going to- you know...” He hesitates, not sure if he should finish that sentence. Bitty seems to understand him, anyway.

“Oh, no. He’s in a good space right now.”

“Good.”

“We’re getting married, you know,” Bitty says in a careful voice. Kent is aware of this - they’d announced it during the same press conference - but he hadn’t thought about it as much as he’d imagined he would.

“I know. Congratulations. You guys seem really happy,” Kent says, then adds: “I’m glad”, and finds that he means it.

Bitty smiles. “We are. Thanks.” Kent nods, racking his brain for something else to say, but comes up blank. There was a time when he was really good at small talk. Hell, he probably still is. There’s just something about the way that Bitty looks at him, all considering, that kind of ties up something inside of him. It’s a look that makes Bitty- Eric look older than he is; wiser, too.

“I really used to hate you,” Eric says, eventually. It takes Kent by surprise, him being this honest.

“Likewise,” he says. For some reason, that makes Eric laugh really hard. Kent blinks a few times, waiting for him to be finished. It takes at least half a minute.

“Sorry,” Eric finally says. “It’s just that Holster...” He trails off, then directs a soft smile to Kent. There’s probably a story, there, but this doesn’t seem like the time to ask. “Never mind. I just wanted to say- You deserve to be happy, too.”

“Yeah?” Kent asks.

“You don’t think so?”

Kent considers that for a moment. He looks over at the ice, where his old team members are skating past fans during the pre-game warming up, faces determined. Thinks back to how it felt to be out there himself, two years ago already, all that pressure and guilt weighing him down. He didn’t think he deserved to be, back then. But now? He thinks of Violet, chattering away from behind the counter, of colourful tulips and trips to the coffee shop and the locals raising their hands in greeting, of the seaside breeze and California sun.

“You know what,” he says, turning back to face Bitty. “I think I already am.”

Bitty nods.

“I’m glad,” he says, still smiling softly. Then it turns into a smirk. “I hope you still are after my fiancé kicks your old team’s asses.”

Kent laughs.

“In your dreams, Bittle.”

***

The Falconers do not, in fact, kick the Ace’s asses- neither do the Ace’s kick the Falconer’s asses, to be honest. The game is tied 1 – 1 for almost the entire final period, overtime lurking just around the corner. Kent is not biting his nails, thank you very much, he kicked that habit a long time ago, but it’s really fucking tense.

Then, right when the countdown back from 10 starts, Persy turns with the puck. One of the Falconer’s goes at him with full speed, checking him with almost all he’s got, but still, ultimately, not a foul – causing Persy to fall back against the board. The Falconer was too late, though – the puck already landed in Warder’s stick, who pushes it with enormous speed to the goal-

For a split second, Parse thinks it will go past, if just by inches. His hands cover his face, just peeking at the ice through his fingers.

– but then Caleb is there, hitting the puck softly but surely, causing it to change direction just so. The Falconer’s goalie reaches with his glove---

– and misses. The puck lands in the net with a satisfying bounce, with just 2 seconds remaining on the clock.

The arena goes crazy. At the side of the Falconer’s fans, there’s a lot of disappointed shouting, a lot of howling at the referees that they missed a foul and they suck, but it’s all for nothing: the goal is awarded and the game ends in 2 - 1 for the Aces. At the side of the Ace’s fans, the screaming is earsplitting, and it’s beautiful. Kent throws his head back and screams with them.

***

As soon as he can, Kent moves onto the ice, congratulating the team on their win, hugging his old team members tightly, slapping the newer players on their backs. Warder follows him onto the ice and they do a celebratory celly, like they used to do after games.

Persy and Caleb have already been cornered by the press. Kent feels a surge of pride for the way they are handling themselves out there, allowing himself to just take in Caleb’s confident stance for a couple of moments before throwing himself back at the rest of the team.

It feels like it takes the two players forever to extract themselves from before the cameras and make their way back to the team, but when they do, Caleb skates straight at him, eyes sparkling when he gets closer. He’s sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead, and still flushing a little bit, although whether it’s from being camera-shy or still lingering from the exhaustion of the game, Kent isn’t sure- and he looks fucking amazing.

“There’s the man of the match,” Kent says, smiling, throwing his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. A flashback springs into his mind, of a similar movement all those years ago when Caleb had just joined the team, but then he thinks _we are both so different now than we were back then_ and it fades away again as he focuses on the _now_. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Caleb grins.

“Yeah? Thanks, Cap.”

“Not your Captain,” Kent reminds him. The smile Caleb gives him at that goes straight to his core. They stand there like that, for a couple seconds, just looking at each other.

“I hear Cali is still treating you well,” Caleb says, finally, just as Kent says, “It was really fucking good to see you play again.”

They both laugh. Caleb looks at him with crinkled eyes.

“Are you saying you missed me, C?” Caleb chirps.

Kent shrugs. "Oh, I don't know. It's been awfully long since you last came to visit."

It's a bit of an exaggeration - but not by that much. With all of the craziness surrounding the Stanley Cup and hockey practice and sponsorship deals, Cal hasn't been able to out to Carmel for the last two months, and with Violet busy with summer school, Kent hadn't been able to leave the shop to fly to Vegas before yesterday. They Skyped, of course, but it's not- the same. 

"Yo, Cal!" somebody shouts. Kent is suddenly very aware of sounds around him, realizing that there are people in the room and that some of them are waiting for Caleb’s attention, as well. He pulls back his hand from where it had slid down Caleb’s shoulder to rest on his upper arm and starts to move back a little bit.

Caleb’s arm jumps out quickly to grab Kent’s elbow, firmly keeping him in place.

“I’ve been thinking about coming out,” he says, so softly that Kent has to strain his ears to hear him, but staring at Kent intently. Kent sucks in a breath.

“Yeah?” he says, stupidly, heart tripping. “Uh. I mean- you should do what feels best for you. But uh- from my experience, it’s better. Being out.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Caleb says. “And if it doesn’t work out as well as I’d hoped, there’s uh- I hear there’s some nice seaside places in California that serve as an excellent refuge.”

Kent smiles. “I’m sure the people there would welcome you with open arms.”

***

“I guess that second Stanley cup was not meant to be, Zimms,” Kent says when he catches up with Bitty and Jack later that day. “I’d say I’m sorry, but since my team just beat yours, I’m really not.”

“Fuck off, Parse,” Jack says, lacking any real heat. “I’m sure you’re enjoying this, eh?”

“So much, Zimms,” Kent laughs. “For real though, you played really well out there today.”

“Thanks. Guess it just wasn’t enough, huh?” Jack replies. There’s still a knee jerk reaction in Kent that wants to do something to comfort him, at that, the sad undertones in his voice triggering something deep down. Before he can say anything though, Bitty takes Jack’s hand, squeezing, and Jack visibly relaxes.

“You should still be proud of your team. And yourself,” Kent says, and then, just because he wants to alleviate the mood, “You guys can’t help it that we are clearly superior.”

Bitty snorts.

“You cannot talk, Bittle,” Kent says. “I distinctly remember you telling me that the Falconers would kick the Aces’ asses and you were _so wrong_. Hence, me being superior.”

“Ha, so now it’s you personally?” Bitty says. “Bless your heart.”

A year, or two, ago, that would have sounded like an insult, but now, Kent knows he can just let it slide. Instead, he laughs.

“I guess I deserved that.” He shrugs, focussing back on Jack. “So, no gaping black hole after losing this? No drinking yourself to sleep tonight?”

“Yikes,” Bitty says. “If that's how you dealt with losing when you were Captain, I'm thinking it's a good thing you got out when you did.”

“I didn't. Well. Close.” He grins. “You're probably right. Guess it is for the best.” 

Bitty hums, but moves the conversation away from the topic. They talk for a couple of minutes before Jack says, “Oh, I think I need to leave. Press conference.” He looks around, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You're not supposed to know this yet, but there’s gonna be a new captain next year.”

Kent raises his eyebrows.

“Really? I thought you'd be too competitive to ever give up that position.”

Jack shrugs. “I think it's time. I'd like to have some more free time.” There's something more in that statement, a sort of _looking to the future_ sentiment, but Kent doesn't call him out on it. Jack's gaze shifts to Bitty, eyes going soft. “I don't- need it. I think I’ve got everything I need, really.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He looks to the side, where Caleb is giving another interview. Their eyes lock for a couple of moments, and Caleb smiles before turning back to the journalist. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to the wonderful [betweenthepies](http://betweenthepies.tumblr.com) who agreed to beta-read this and did their best to somewhat weed out the hockey bullshit.


End file.
